Runaway Bird
by bump-in-the-night1990
Summary: The war is over. Winter is over. And yet, Sansa is 18 and still under the control of Petyr Baleish. She escapes the castle and travels towards Winterfell with the help of a man who disappeared from her life many years ago: Sandor Clegane. Sandor/Sansa
1. Ensnared

Sansa sits at her vanity table, her blue eyes trained absentmindedly on the mirror. Hannah, her maid, is plaiting her long dyed brown hair into an intricate style, swept off the back of her neck and piled on top of her head. Sansa toys with the silver chain draped around her neck, a tiny bird charm hangs off the end, its little head pointed towards the sky.

"It's a gift for you," Petyr said many moons ago. "My little bird." The nickname dug deep, reminding a young Sansa of a scared older, man who disappeared out of her life many years ago. "Here, try it on." When Petyr clasped the necklace around Sansa's tender skin, it felt more like a chain, a collar, than a piece of pretty jewelry.

"Thank you," she had said with downturned eyes.

Petyr gave Sansa the necklace four years ago, and now, at eighteen, it still hangs around her neck like a heavy weight, reminding her how much she will always owe him. She is indebted to Petyr Baelish by his own trickery and her own foolish submission. If only she had escaped years earlier, things would be so much easier now. She would have been a runaway like her sister Arya, not some dressed up doll, not some silly woman who's every possession belongs to the man they were bestowed from. Well, she won't stand for it any more. The war is over, winter is over, and her family, however diminished, is restored to dignity and prosperity in Winterfell. She intends to escape the silver grasp of Petyr's little fingers and find safety in her family's walls.

"Does it look all right, m'lady?" Hannah asks as she finishes the final touches on Sansa's hair.

"Of course, thank you." Sansa stands up, and her long skirts sweep behind her as she paces across the room towards her window. The sky is bright, blue- a sharp contrast to the dull grey walls of the Eyrie castle. "Hannah?" Sansa asks.

"Yes, m'lady?"

"Have you received any responses to my letter yet?"

Sansa's stomach twists in anticipation. Five days ago, she placed her trust in Hannah and sent out a secret request for an able-bodied guard to sneak her out of the Eyrie and escort her to Winterfell. So many things could go wrong. Hannah could betray her, from bribe or fear. Someone could steal the letter. The wrong person could read it. Although, of course, Sansa did not sign her name to the treacherous document, it would be easy enough to link the request back to the lonely young woman stashed away under Petyr's command.

"No, m'lady. I'm sorry. Not yet. I promise I'll come to you as soon as I hear a response. I think there should be one any day now considering the salary you promised. There are many men who would be eager to help a proper lady, especially for the right reward."

"One can only hope," Sansa responds. A little blue bird lands on one of the castle turret's outside of Sansa's window. It chirps a soft, four-note melody, and Sansa leans against the glass, her eyes drawn to the little creature. "If only I had wings to fly away with," she says softly. "Birds don't need a guard or a horse. They only need two tiny wings and plenty of courage." Hannah does not respond, so Sansa says, "You can go now, Hannah. Please let me know as soon as you hear word."

"Of course, m'lady." After a tiny bow, Hannah exits the room, leaving Sansa alone in the drafty interior.

She presses a pale hand against the glass and wishes more than anything that she could just be free. To be within the arms of her depleted family, to be in the comfort of her childhood home, to be surrounded by love, not deceit and vice. The bird continues to chirp, and Sansa softly whistles along.

"Where were you tucked away all day?" Petyr asks Sansa. They are seated at the long, wooden dining table, silver tureens of soups and platters of meat, fruit, and cheese displayed in front of them. Servants silently step forward to fill their masters plates with food, and Sansa smiles sweetly at the little girl ladling her soup.

"I was reading," she responds.

"A pretty, young woman shouldn't spend her day with her nose tucked between the pages of some dusty book."

"What would you rather I do?"

Petyr smiles widely. He clasps his richly ringed fingers together, garnet and emerald catching the light of the candles. "I can think of a few things." His eyes flicker over Sansa, and she instinctively shrinks down in her chair, averting her gaze. "You've grown into a very beautiful woman, Alayne. I cannot believe you turn eighteen in less then a month, and yet, when you came to me, you were just past the days of girlhood."

_When I came to you? _Sansa wants to scoff. _More like when you scurried me away like one of your many greedy treasures and spoils. _"Thank you," she replies. Sansa keeps her eyes trained on her food, taking tiny sips of squash soup and bites of minted lamb. The food can't cover the bitter taste in her mouth. For years, Petyr has been hinting at his intention to marry Sansa, but only in these past few months has he seriously begun to proposition her. If she doesn't leave the castle soon, she has no easy way to stop his advances.

"I've been thinking," Petyr continues, always managing to have a two-sided conversation by himself. "It's time that people know the true identity of the beautiful lady living in my castle. Many people have been suspicious over the years that you are not truly my bastard child, Alayne Stone, but I've never given proof to their suspicions. However, if we truly wish to be married, than I must reject you as my daughter and restore you to your true name: Sansa Stark."

"But-" Sansa's mind is whirling. There. Now he's said it in plain words. He intends to marry her. "But my bastard name protects me, I can't just, I can't-"

"Your bastard name protected you during the war," Petyr corrects. "Now that the war is over, there's no need to conceal your true identity. Actually, quite the contrary. Your true name holds much more power now that the Starks have control of the North again, and you, my love, are in line directly after your brother."

Finally, Sansa raises her eyes to meet Petyr's gaze. She's unable to control the anger rising within her. "I don't care for what you are insinuating," she says sharply.

"What? Our marriage or the dethronement of your brother?"

"Both." The words begin to fall from Sansa's mouth before she can stop them. She stands up and throws her napkin down onto the table. "You may think you have the whole world wrapped around you tricky little fingers, but let me tell you something, Petyr Baleish. I am not some puppet you can control, and if you ever threaten my family again, I swear I'll-"

Suddenly her wrist is clasped in the iron grasp of Petyr. He twists it painfully, and tears fall from Sansa's eyes, though she refuses to make a sound. "I don't respond to threats well, Sansa. Now shut your pretty little mouth and go to your room. We will have a proper discussion tomorrow, and by then end of the week, _I _swear to _you _that we will be married." He shoves her away harshly enough that she falls the ground. Her hands break the fall, but they rub roughly against the hard ground, and she can feel blood escaping from the light scratches. She scampers up off of the ground and flees the hall without another look back at her captor.

It is only when she's alone, back in her room, that she lets a sob escape her choked throat.

Sansa is curled in her bed, her heart beating rapidly. Hannah came in earlier. With a pitying look, she wrapped Sansa's hands in soft white cloth and wiped the tears off of her pale face. "I have to leave," Sansa told her. "Tonight. It has to be tonight. I can't wait for a guard. Time is running out."

An obedient employee and a true friend, Hannah spent the rest of the evening secretly gathering provisions for Sansa. She stored grains and fruit and a blanket in a large wicker basket. "A horse will be saddled and tied up just past the gates," Hannah said. "More provisions will be stored in its bags, but I could only get so much on such short notice."

"Thank you so much, Hannah," Sansa said, grasping her hands tightly. "You are a good friend, risking your own life and honor for me. I will never forget it, and I hope to repay you some day."

"You may be a lady, but as you have told me your story, I know that you have lived through more misfortunes than I, for I still have a father and a mother, a safe home and a good man who wishes to marry me. I am more than glad to secure your own happiness." For the first time in her life, Sansa hugged her maid tightly and wished her goodbye.

It's almost three in the morning now, and Sansa quietly slips out of bed. The castle will be quiet for just an hour or so- after everyone has gone to sleep, but before people awaken for morning duties. She's already dressed in her travelling clothes- a warm cotton dress, a heavy cloak with a habit, and her leather riding boots. Although winter is over, the chill in the air will continue to get colder on her way to Winterfell. _That is, if I can make it Winterfell. _

Sansa is not at all happy to make the journey on her own, but after the dinner she had with Petyr, she realizes tonight is her last night to escape. And if she should fail, if she should be captured and dragged back into the confines of the castle, well at least she'll know that she tried to change her fate. At least she'll know that she didn't sit by, complacent to let some domineering, horrible man control her future.

Grabbing the basket of goods, Sansa heads for her bedroom door, but as a last thought, she rips the silver bird necklace from her neck and throws it onto her bed. Let Petyr find his gift instead of her warm body come the morning.

The corridor is empty, but cautious, she pads softly down the hallway, sticking to the shadows and corners. She takes the spiraling staircase down ten floors until she reaches the bottom of the castle. "Now for the hard part," she whispers softly. She can't walk out the main door, for there will be at least three guards on duty outside of the gates. Instead, she walks down the hallways until she is at the Southside of the castle, and she pushes open one of the rusted windows. It sticks at first, but finally, she is able to budge it open with only a small amount of creaking.

She looks outside into the dark abyss. The Eyrie castle is built on a steep hill, the treacherous cliff brining many men to their early deaths. There is just enough room for her to slip out of the window, and if she hugs herself against the castle, she should be able to scurry around the sides until she reaches the main path. _That is, if I don't fall off into a very, very painful death. But maybe death is just another sort of freedom. _

Trying to find the courage that so many of her siblings have always had, Sansa takes a deep breath and climbs out of the window. Her heart pounds when her foot slips on the damp grass, and she has to cling to the stonewall with her injured hands to keep from falling. Slowly, she regains her footing and begins to walk along the outer wall. It takes at least half an hour until she reaches the main footpath, but at least this part of the journey is safer.

Being careful to look around her for wandering men or women, Sansa begins a steady descent of the worn path. After spending months upon months in the castle, the task is long and tiring. Her shallow breath impedes her, but she keeps going, knowing that she is on borrowed time. Finally, just as the sun is threatening to rise, Sansa reaches the bottom of the hill.

She kneels down to the ground and kisses it, and then she looks skyward and says, "Thank you Gods, thank you whoever is looking after me." She knows it is only the beginning of a very long journey, but at least she has gotten this far. Sansa picks herself up off of the ground and heads for the spot where Hannah promised a horse would be tied up.

Sure enough, in the distance, there is a horse grazing on dried grass, it's black mane barely visible in the dim, morning light. But as Sansa nears, she notices that there's a second horse next to it, almost identical in its black coat. _Why two horses? _Sansa thinks. _What use could I have for two horses?_

She is about to approach the animals, when from behind, one strong arm wraps around her waist and another covers her mouth. "What is the little bird doing out of its cage?" A deep voice asks.

Sansa begins to shake, fear coursing through her, but then, something clicks in her brain. The voice doesn't sound like that of Petyr Baleish, no, in fact, it sounds like a voice she hasn't heard for many, many years. A voice that is so wrapped up in dreams and fantasies- she almost doesn't believe in its true existence. The hand covering her mouth pulls away, and softly, in barely a whisper, Sansa says, "Ser Clegane?"

The man spins her around so she is staring straight into his dark, scarred face. His intense eyes stare her down. "I've told you before, Lady Stark, I'm not a Ser."

"Well, what should I call you then?" Sansa's scattered thoughts are trying to organize themselves, but there are too many questions running through her mind at the same time. _What is he doing here? Where has he been all of these years? Has he come for me? _Her memories of the hound are so muddled and confused that she cannot pull apart reality and fantasy.

"Sandor," he replies in that familiar gruff voice. His hand rests on the hilt of his longsword, and Sansa's eyes sweep over his black clothing.

"And, Sandor, why are you here?"

A deep grin cracks across his marked face, and he jingles a hollow sounding moneybag. "For the money, of course. I heard that a lady needs an escort."

**A/N **** - My first A Song of Ice and Fire story. Let me know what you think!**


	2. Breaking Silence

The sun is falling, and dusky shadows are creeping over the lands, purple and blues melding into the darkening horizon. Sansa, though exhausted from another full day of riding, sits up straight in her saddle, her body complying with the steady rhythm of the moving horse. Ahead of her is Sandor. He also sits straight in his saddle, but his head is constantly moving side-to-side, ever aware of new sounds or disruptions in the forest. He's a black-cloaked figure. An apparition. A shadow of a memory.

They've been riding together for three days now, and in those three days, no more than a hundred words have passed between them. Sansa, startled by his reappearance into her once cloistered life, was able to say no more to him than relay a promise of gold when they reached her family. In guarantee, she offered him a golden bracelet lined with diamonds, an old gift from Joffrey that she thought too pretty to part with when she threw away most of his bequeaths. But, surprisingly, Sandor rejected the bracelet, saying Sansa's word was enough.

_Is it possible he still has feelings for me? After all of these years? _Memories of their one shared kiss- fast and harsh, yet impassioned in such a way that even as a girl - no, a young woman - something was aroused deep within her. It was the last they saw of each other, and now four years later, he is back in her life, yet seemingly uninterested in her. _Did he even know, or at least suspect, that I was the lady in need of an escort from the Eyrie? _Sandor came into her life at such a delicate age. It's impossible for Sansa to know what his intent was then or even what it is now.

She bites her lip. They'll be stopping for the night soon, kindling a fire, eating a meal, settling to sleep, all in silence. _But not tonight_, Sansa thinks_, tonight we will talk. It's a long road to the North, and I don't plan on making my trip in a nun's silence. _Half an hour later, when the sun is just peeking out from the tip of the mountain Sansa escaped from just days ago, Sandor suddenly heels Stranger, his horse, and jumps off. He leaves Stranger, as always, untied, letting him wander off and graze in the neighboring grass with no fear of his animal running away. And then he begins to set up camp.

Sansa also dismounts. She has to say something. Silence is not her nature. Looking at her own smaller horse, who she named Beauty, Sansa is able to think of something. She turns to Sandor and asks, "How do you know he won't run away?"

Sandor who has already started to gather wood for a fire, looks up, startled. He pushes his long, black hair out of his face, revealing questioning eyes and scars that have haunted Sansa's dreams. "What?" He asks.

"Stranger," she continues. "How do you know he won't run away when you let him go off and feed like that? I have to tie Beauty up if I expect her to be there in the morning."

"Humph," he grunts, turning away and continuing to gather wood. "Maybe you should trust your horse a bit more. Trust your horse, and it'll trust you."

"Maybe, but I think I'd be in a bit of trouble without a horse out here. Perhaps trust isn't something to start in the middle of the woods."

"Perhaps."

More silence. Conversation has never been hard for Sansa, whether with her enemies, her friends, or her family. Talking was natural, a quick wit something she was born with and coveted. She did not with the strength of her older brothers or the courage of young, Arya, but she did have her wit, and it's always been something she could rely on. Until now. Too nervous to trust Lady, Sansa ties up the horse to a nearby oak tree, the rough bark reminding her of home, of the many days she would spend curled up against trees, some fantasy book clutched in her hands while her siblings played and splashed in chilly rivers.

Her memories are fading, just one of many reasons to go home. And yet, every now and then, she still has these vivid recurrences of home, of life before King's Landing and the War and Eyrie. She had to grow up too fast. Everyone had to grow up too fast. Sansa pets Beauty's soft mane and watches Sandor. His movements are quick and sure. Despite his burned body, he's obviously in good physical condition, his clothing stretched under strong muscle and broad shoulders. It's all so surreal how they are here together.

Again, she feels compelled to say something. "Do you think it's strange," she begins. "That we haven't run into any trouble yet?"

"No."

"But don't you think Petyr has sent people after me? Or don't you think these woods are filled with thieves and knaves?"

"You live in fantasies, girl. This isn't some storybook where there's a man behind every tree waiting to rape and pillage. The war is over, and most people are finally settling into some form of prosperity. Enjoy the peace while you can."

"I'd rather you not call me girl," Sansa replies. The short words feel belittling. After all, Sansa has had her moon blood for many years now; she is nothing close to a girl.

"Why? It's what you are." A satisfied grin breaks across Sandor's face as the branches take light and the small fire is kindled. Smoke begins to raise and waft through the forests' branches.

"I'm a woman. I'm eighteen."

The grin widens. "Ah, eighteen years. I've spent almost double that surviving in these filthy lands."

Sansa bites her thumb. His comment reaches her somewhere tucked away. How old was he when he kissed her? How can she, no how could she have, been interested in a man so much older than her? Perhaps when Joffrey was her only other option, the decision was easy. She didn't know any better. But now, tucked away in the woods, alone with Sandor, the familiar feels of want, of curiosity are still rising within her. No, despite his age, there is something about this man that makes Sansa constantly yearn for more, more contact, more words, more anything.

"Would you like some help?" Sansa asks. For the past three nights, Sandor has prepared and cleaned all of their meals. She knows that she's paying him, but that doesn't mean he has to do all of the work. "After all, what else is there for me to do?"

"I'm fine," he grunts and then peers out into the dark woods. "I'll have to start hunting though. These provisions will only hold out for another day."

"I can hunt!" Sansa says, realizing her high voice sounds too enthusiastic.

"Really?" Sandor shoots her a doubtful look. "Shooting arrows in Joffrey's garden doesn't count as hunting, girl."

"I know that," Sansa says, defensive. "I started hunting in the Eyrie. Only in Petyr's private woods- he wouldn't let me any further than that. But I've learned to shoot my fair share of rabbits."

"Rabbits are snacks."

"They're better than starving."

Sandor, after finishing fashioning a spit, throws some old venison over the fire and begins to roast it. "Fine," he says. "I'll give you my bow for an hour tomorrow, and we'll see what you can do."

Satisfied, Sansa smiles. "That's all I ask."

They get an early start the next morning, rising when the leaves are still damp with dew and a grey mist covers the forest. If they keep up this pace, they'll reach Winterfell quickly, but Sansa may be dead with the effort. But she bites her tongue as Sandor saddles his horse. After all, he's her guide, so it's his rules.

After riding for a few hours, Sansa calls out, "Do you think I might hunt now? My legs could do with a bit of a stretch."

He takes a minute to respond, but then finally calls back, "Fine."

Sansa is excited, yet nervous. She hasn't hunted much in the past year. Her captivity has drained her of energy, of desires. Most days she sat listless in her room, sometimes reading and rereading the small collection of books she's allowed. But the skill should come back to her quickly. Hopefully. Sandor walks over with a large, dark bow in his hand and quiver of handcrafted arrows. He looks down at Sansa, towering over her by almost a foot. His vicinity, as always, puts her on edge. She never knows where to look when he's so close to her. His body, too lewd. His eyes, too intense. The woods, too distant. She settles for looking just below his dark eyes, settling on a familiar patch of raised, scarred skin just above his cheekbone.

"Here," he says, handing her the weapon. "It might be a bit big for you, but it will have to do." Hesitant, he looks around the woods. "I don't want you wandering off too far. We're well away from the Eyrie now, but -"

"I thought knaves were for storybooks," Sansa chides.

"Well, the stories come from somewhere. Here," he says before whistling a simple, three-note melody. The sounds are clear, smooth, surprising noises to come from such a tough man. "Just whistle that out every few minutes, so I'll know you're all right."

"Glad to know you care," Sansa says, smiling at him, trying to soften some of his rough edges.

"Well I won't get the money if I come to Winterfell carrying a dead carcass, will I?"

The words cut Sansa sharply. Every now and then she forgets that Sandor is only with her because of the promise of payment. Sometimes, when they're travelling hour after hour, she likes to think that he's there because he cares for her, because he wants to be there. "Right," she replies, eyes downcast. "I'll get going." She begins to turn around, but then she says. "And will you whistle back? So I know you're all right?"

The words sound insecure, childish, but Sandor rubs a hand over his stubbled chin and says, "Of course," in a softened voice. Satisfied, Sansa nods and begins her solo trek into the woods.

The forest is alive with creatures. There are only small villages surrounding this part of the woods, which means there's plenty of wildlife. It doesn't take Sansa long to spot a rabbit nibbling at a few tufts of dried grass. Smiling, she quietly approaches and strings an arrow. The bow is large and awkward in her small hands, but at the close distance, she thinks she can make it. She pulls the string tight, her weak arms struggling under the bow's tension, and then lets the arrow fly. It sticks the rabbit straight in the bell.

Sansa lets out a squeal of happiness. A kill, and on her first try! She claps her hands over her mouth as soon as the noise escapes. She wouldn't want to scare away the rest of the game. At this rate, she'll be able to bring Sandor a string of rabbits within the hour. Maybe he'll stop calling her a girl then. She hurries forward towards the rabbit, and tugs the arrow out of its bleeding belly.

She allows a moment of grief to quickly flow through her. She knows that rabbits are there for her to survive on, but it still feels wrong it kill a living creature. She shakes away the feeling and leans down to tie up the rabbit onto a string, but just as she is finishing the final note, she hears leaves crunching behind her.

"Sandor?" She asks quietly.

Her heart starts racing when there's no answer. She should get up. Grab the rabbit and run without looking back, but the curiosity is too strong. She turns around, and finds herself crouched in the ground, facing two tall, skinny men. They're covered in dirty clothing, and she can smell them despite the distance. She scrambles onto her feet. Her mouth is dry, but she manages to say. "What do you want?" _Run, Sansa, run you silly little fool! _She can't make her feet move.

The taller man, one with blonde stringy hair, smiles. "Well, I don't know. Thomas, what would you like to do with this pretty young thing?"

"Oh, there are just so many options." The shorter man, Thomas, rubs his hands together, and a disgusting grin settles on his face. "I think we could have a lot of fun with her. Look at that soft skin. Let's get a look at it without so much clothing."

Sansa is shaking. She tries to scream, but she can't. She tries to run, but she can't. _Stupid, weak girl_, she thinks. _You're better than this. Don't make it easy for them. _She only has one hope. Controlling her rapid breaths, she calls out, "Sandor!"

But there's no need. He's already there, coming up behind the men, his sword trained right for their vulnerable necks.

**A/N ****– Here's the second chapter! Let me know if I should continue or not. How do you like my Sansa? She's one of my favorite characters, so I want her to be believable.**

**Thanks for the R&R ! **


	3. Memory

Sandor slices through the skinny neck of the first man like he's cutting off a hunk of meat for supper. The detached head falls to the ground with an audible thunk that makes Sansa cringe. The image is too familiar. Bile rises in her stomach as she remembers the way her own father's head was chopped off, as she was forced to watch his punishment, no, his murder. She falls back onto the ground, hands grasping piles of dead leaves, but she can't pull her eyes away.

The headless body drops to the floor as Sandor approaches the remaining man. His dark eyes are filled with fury, and Sansa's attacker raises his hands in surrender. But Sandor does not deal with mercy, and he sticks the point of his sword through the soft belly of the plunderer, blood spurting out, streaking across Sandor's black clothing. The cry of pain is loud, curdling. The man tries to plug the gaping hole in his midriff, but it's of no use. Sandor strikes him a second time, across the neck, and a second headless man falls to the ground, joining his companion in a dripping pile of blood.

Sandor is standing over the two men, staring with that blank, calculated look. He pulls off a rag from his belt and uses it to wipe off his bloodied blade. Sansa tries to control her breathing, but too much has happened too quickly. Her father's death is now on the forefront of her consciousness, a memory she has tried to bury so many times. And what if Sandor hadn't showed up in time? She would have been raped or worse.

"Fancy that," Sandor says as he continues to clean his blade. "I guess there were some savages around here after all." He glances at Sansa, and for just a moment, she sees an unfamiliar emotion flicker through his gaze. Concern, maybe? "You'd better get off the ground. There could be some more around. We should get moving."

He moves towards Sansa and offers her a red-stained hand. She grasps it tightly, and he lifts her to her feet. The small contact sets her nerves on edge. His calloused grip is surprisingly warm. When he lets go, she finds herself standing on very unsteady feet. "Help me check the bodies," he says. "Let's see if they managed to steal anything good before I came along."

The thought of touching headless, bloody men makes Sansa want to vomit, her morning's breakfast resting uneasy in her agitated stomach, but she does as Sandor asks. Her hands shake as she pads down the clothing of the taller dead man, yet to her small pleasure, she quickly encounters a full pocket. She extracts a handful of gold coins and small jewels, silver necklaces and rings with valuable stones. In the pile, there's also a metal nametag, the type that were given to soldiers during the war: "Peter Anthony, #53562, North's Army."

Sansa's face pales, and Sandor notices. "What is it, girl?" He steps closer and sees the jewels. "Oh, good. They were worth something after all. Let me see them." Sansa silently hands over the stash of goods, all except the metal token. Noticing her silence, Sandor asks. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"He was one of my brother's men, during the war. He's still carrying around his token." Confused emotions run through her. What is a war veteran doing in the middle of the forest, living off of raping and pillaging? Why isn't he at home with a good job and a stipend?

Sandor sees the questions on Sansa's face. "He was probably a deserter. Don't worry yourself, girl."

"But what if he wasn't?" Sansa asks. "Aren't veterans supposed to be provided for?"

"Aye, but even a winning country isn't always rich after a war. There's damage to be repaired, and your brother and his treasury can't support every man who fought in the effort."

"Still," Sansa says, "It feels wrong."

Sandor is picking through the jewels until he pulls out one small, gold ring. He puts the rest of the treasure in his deep pockets. "There's a lot of wrong in this world. Best to just survive and let someone else worry about the rest." He twirls the gold ring before offering it to Sansa. "Here, take it."

Sansa tries to keep her face from flushing. Sandor is giving her a gift. Even if she just pulled it out of a dead man's pocket, it's still a gift. Sandor killed the men, and by his rights, the bounty belongs to him. "I shouldn't," she says. "You've done enough just by saving me."

"I want you to have it. My sister used to have a ring just like it, and you remind me of her."

Sansa furrows her brow. "You have a sister?"

"A long time ago, I did. Here. Take it." Quickly realizing they've breached a sensitive topic, Sansa shuts her mouth and accepts the ring. It's small, but there are tiny sapphire stones garnishing the top. Sapphire is a stone of the North, and it's comforting to slip the little treasure onto her finger.

"Thank you."

Sandor grunts in response. He finishes checking the men for anything else of value, only finding a couple of dull knives and a pouch of dried meat and fruit. "Come on, let's get going," he says, looking at the horizon. The sun is already past its midday position. "We've lost time. We need to ride a few hours from here before the sun goes down, so that we can hunt."

"Wait! I did hunt- at least, before the men came, I did." Sansa runs over to where she dropped the rabbit. She picks it up, dusting it off. "It's a bit dirty, but it should still be good."

Sandor looks impressed, and that small, close-mouthed smile reappears. "Not bad, little bird."

The familiar name pleases Sansa. It feels affectionate, familiar. She looks into Sandor's dark eyes and for the thousandth time, wonders how he feels about her. She cannot ignore her attraction to this strange, older man, but does he still feel for her? Or was their kiss caused by some sort of fleeting attraction, lust in a time of war and confusion? "Thank you," she responds, trying to push away these thoughts. It's probably best to stay on these distant, yet friendly terms. After all, he's the only person she can depend on until they reach Winterfell. "I would have hunted more, but then-" Sansa shivers. She still can't believe what almost befell her.

"It's all right. If we don't have time to hunt tonight, this will stay us until tomorrow." He takes the rabbit and ties it around his belt. "Come. Let's ride."

The temperature drops quickly with the fading sun, and Sansa shivers, pulling her cloak tightly around her. She leans towards the fire, the crackling twigs and smoky leaves, trying to gather the little warmth it gives off. Sandor looks over at her as he cooks the raw, rabbit meat. "Cold?" He asks. "I thought you were a child of the North."

_Girl, a child, why won't he stop calling me these things, _Sansa thinks. _After all, even if I was young when we were together in King's Landing, I'm a fully grown woman now_. "I guess I've been South for too long. Besides, at Petyr's, I spent many of my days tucked under lambskin covers with a large fireplace constantly burning at my bedside."

"Here. Take this." Sandor slides out of his thick, fur cloak and passes it to Sansa. The material weighs heavily in her hands.

"Don't you need it?"

Sandor shakes his head. "I don't get cold." His eyes narrow, and his voice lowers. "I guess you could say the fire has stayed with me my entire life."

Sansa pities Sandor, for the story of his burns, the path of his life. But he's a strong, closed-off man, and pity won't do him any good. She accepts the cloak and pulls it around her slim shoulders. It smells like the forest and musk and mint, and she breathes in the heady scent, hoping it clings to her after she returns his cloak. "Thank you." Sandor nods, and they continue to sit in silence, watching the meat slowly cook and darken. "What will you do," Sansa asks, "When we get to the North? Will you stay?"

"I'll go where there's work to be found."

"I'm sure my brother would love for nothing more than a practiced guard at his side," Sansa says, perhaps too eagerly. Something distasteful twists in her stomach when she imagines Sandor disappearing from her life a second time. The more days they spend together, the less she can imagine saying goodbye to the faithful hound. "He's a good man. He'll pay you well to work for him."

"I'm not looking for the sort of work."

"What do you mean that sort? Isn't guarding what you're doing now?"

"I wouldn't want to be tied down to the King of the North. I wouldn't want to be tied down to anyone. I take my work on commission now."

Sansa leans forward. "But don't you get sick of constantly moving around? Everyone wants to settle eventually."

"Not me."

"Why not?"

Sandor sighs and looks up. His gaze is agitated, but he keeps talking anyways. "Because men like me don't settle down. We've no one to settle with."

"What do you mean?"

"You ask a lot of questions, girl."

"You're a hard person to get answers out of, boy."

Sandor smirks, but stays silent. He continues to cook the rabbit until its charred skin is starting to flake off into the wind. He pulls it off the spit and serves Sansa her portion. Their meal is silent, save the sound of chewing and the quiet whispers of the forest. And then, as Sansa is finishing her last bite, without prompting, Sandor says, "I don't mean to be short with you, but there are lot of things I don't like talking about, and you need to accept that. I like you well enough, so respect my space, and we'll get along fine."

_But I don't want to respect your space. I don't want there to be any space between us. There's something here, and if you would just open up to me, than I'm sure- _"All right," Sansa says. "I understand."

"Good." Sandor licks his lips, greasy from the rabbit and looks into the sky. "This winds are picking up. We should head out early tomorrow so we can ride with the sun."

"How long do you think it'll be until we reach Winterfell?"

"A week. Maybe two. Just depends if the road is good to us."

Sansa nods. She stands up, and is about to gather her things for bed, when she turns to Sandor. She approaches him slowly, and his dark, unreadable eyes follow her advance. Sansa kneels down so she can look at him, eye-to-eye. "I'd like to thank you," she says. "For saving me today. If you weren't there, well, I just wanted to say thank you."

Sansa swears that his scarred face softens, and to her shock, his hand reaches up to brush softly across her cheek. The contact almost makes her jump in surprise. It sends her hearts racing, her nerves on fire. If she leaned in, just now, she could kiss him. She remembers those soft lips, and she wants to feel them now. But she doesn't lean forward, and he doesn't kiss her. He simply tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and says. "I'm here to protect you, little bird. Never forget that."

When Sansa falls asleep that night, she dreams of birds and dogs and sunshine and spring.

**A/N ****– Thanks for all of the great reviews! I'm glad you guys like the story so far.**

**Do you like how this story is a slow-burn? Or do you wish things would progress more quickly?**

**Thanks for the R&R!**


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